


Encounters

by DarthSuki



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping, Teasing, Undercover Missions, horrible moments of french, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 03:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthSuki/pseuds/DarthSuki
Summary: Jack Morrison has been hiding out in Dorado, hoping to catch one of the leaders of Los Muertos in a local strip club and get some information about Reaper. He's been there for a while, but one night, he comes across a familiar woman who seems to be in quite the same situation as him...Rather than see each other as enemies, Jack and Amelie take advantage of the moment to simply be two interested people crossing paths, and enjoy a night together as just that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a commission for a wonderful user who wishes to remain anonymous. To see more of my writing, please check out my [writing blog here!](https://darthwritings.tumblr.com/post/174351428087/commission-slots-15-commission-information)

“Can I get you a drink sir?”

The question seemed to fall on idle ears, no response forthcoming for a couple seconds. The owner of the question pursed her lips and leaned back, away from the bar. She crossed her arms and repeated her question again. She still didn’t get an answer from the man who sat across from her, but his glance in her direction, and then to the collection of alcoholic bottles behind her was answer enough--she recognized the man and what he normally got anyway.

It wasn’t much of a surprise, the old man barely spoke to anyone despite almost coming in every night. He was somewhere between a familiar face and an old stranger--at least he never bothered any of the dancers like the nightly horde of drunk, 20-something men who think they owned a girl just because they threw a five dollar bill in her direction. The old man was, in a word, refreshing as a customer--even if the establishment in question was just a local strip club in a forgotten offshoot of Dorado.

The man was old, but not as much in the sense of raw years ticking past him--his skin was peppered with scars from a battle long before, and his hair was a stark white, color bleached by stress and weariness than chemicals or faddish fashion. He was a soldier, through and through, but it wasn’t so easy to tell where he was from, or what battles his eyes had glimpsed.

To everyone but himself, the old man was simply that--an old man nursing his drink in a stripclub, his eyes watching the surface of the bar more than he did the swing of the dancers’ hips.

To anyone who knew him, and knew him well (whom were few and far in between, most of them dead) he was a soldier of an old organization long forgotten at best, and vilified at worst. To his old friends, he was Jack Morrison. 

By this time, Jack heard rather than saw the drink hit the bar in front of him. He glanced up, just enough to catch the eye of the bartender, a young girl with a softness to her face and a fire in her eyes--she almost reminded him of Lena.

The man brushed aside old memories with a reach of his hand for the drink. 

“Thank you,” he said roughly, voice as delicate as a wire brush. With a quick exchange of money, the bartender continued on her way to the other patrons sitting several seats down.

Jack enjoyed the soothing burn of the drink, but he had no intentions of getting drunk that night. Even if his enhanced metabolism allowed him to get inebriated that quickly, he still had to keep his senses sharp--after all, he was looking for someone.

The former leader of Overwatch, thought dead by all and forgotten by most, had a calling card for the primary and powerful gang of the area: Los Muertos. Always on the fence being being a terrorism group and a radical bunch of idiots against political corruption, Jack didn’t honestly care where on the fence they lay. He was after the information he was sure that they might have, particularly the couple high leadership that he had been staking out the strip club for over the last several weeks.

He had seen some of them come in, but not the ones he had been searching for, so he remained for several nights. Nights turned into days, days turned into weeks, and eventually Jack was staying at an empty room a street down just so he could keep a close eye on the strip club, anxious for when he would catch sight of a man who knew the information he was looking for.

Gabriel Reyes was a hard man to find, but Jack was sure that the Los Muertos would at least point him in a direction better than the one he was already cruising.

It was a little past ten--the club was getting full of buzzed or drunk men almost hanging themselves over the bar surrounding the T-shaped stage. The people that Jack was interested were due to come in (if they came at all that night) in the next hour or so, which meant he had time to kill.

He had a feeling that the workers liked him. He was quiet, paid his dues, didn’t get drunk off his ass and harassed the dancers; it wasn’t all that a surprise that he got a much warmer welcome every night than most of the other patrons. Hell, he even punched a couple assholes in the face several nights back when they got a bit too handsy; it was a risk to his cover, but by god, not even a faked death could burn the morals out of Morrison.

Regardless, nobody paid him any mind as he sat at the bar, his eyes only glancing around the room when he could cover it with a good reason. Loud noises were easy to use, and they happened often enough with the rowdy crowd hitting the stage-side bar with their beer bottles. He doubted that any of the gang bosses would suspect that there would be someone looking for them in a place like this, but Jack was not the type to flounce on caution, and so he remained in his spot, content to fill the visible place of the old man, useless and harmless.

\---

It was past midnight. Jack had nursed at his drinks, but was still taking on a pleasant buzz in the bottom of his gut, one that he was neither unfamiliar or unhappy with. There wasn’t a single notable person who walked through the door, and that alone made him want to drink all the more just to have made the night worthwhile.

Damnnit. It would be another night chalked up to nothing, a useless turn of the clock that would simply leave him another day older and another day farther from getting the information he needed.

Jack set his glass down on the table perhaps a hair too hard--he could feel the bar shake for one short instant--and turned his head for one final glance around the building. His spot at the bar afforded him the best view of the entire place; he could see the stage of dancers and strippers alike all in the same span as he could the rest of the floor, strewn with tables of patrons typically with more money and influence to toss around. In the back he could even see the half-hidden hallway that he knew led to the less public rooms, where many of drunken clients were taken after somehow managing to convince one of the girls to take their cash.

Like so many nights before, his last cursory glance had not a single face that he was searching for. No Los Muertos, no gang members--not even someone he could threaten for information. Just a bunch of drunk college kids and old horny men who thought they were important enough to get one of the girls’ attentions.

But there was one thing that did catch Jack’s eye. A woman, weaving through the tables, saying something to each client in a hushed tone and with assumedly a coy smile. It wasn’t a very abnormal thing to see admittedly, but it wasn’t the activity that had caught Jack’s attention.

Though the woman’s face was often facing away from him, all it took was a glance for it to spark a memory deep in his mind. 

A memory of a woman he knew, a woman he knew both as an old friend and a more recent enemy.

Though she seemed to have covered up her lavender skin and wore a hostess outfit instead of her skintight assassin suit, Jack could tell that it was Amélie Lacroix. Widowmaker.

He didn’t exactly know how he was so sure at first--it wasn’t the first time he would have misplaced a face. But there was something about her, something about the short glance that convinced him she was the same Widowmaker who was apart of the same Talon he had fought with for so long.

In all the span of a second, Morrison went over a plan of action. He glanced around again, hurriedly trying to see if there were other Talon members in the building--had they caught on to his plan and sought him out? No, never, it wasn’t as if they were even looking for him to begin with (not when they were otherwise trying to put down the newly-recalled Overwatch). The adrenaline faded only slightly when he realized that Widowmaker--Amélie--was the only such person in the room.

Still, there was a huge disconnect that worked through Jack’s brain as he hurdled over the haze of the alcohol to figure out why she would be at a stripclub in the middle of Dorado to begin with. Talon activity--at least in the area Jack was carefully scoping out--was extremely minimal. Outside some hushed weapons trading between the two groups, there was no reason to think that Talon would be in this part of Mexico, let alone Dorado.

Morrison was yanked roughly from his thoughts when she finally turned her face, eyes inevitably meeting his own in what would have been moving simply to another table of clients.

And that was the moment that Jack was 100%, entirely sure it was Widowmaker---Amélie.

There were a number of things flying through the man’s mind at that moment, most of them from instinct alone. Run. Fight. Make a game plan. Escape. For a soldier, these emotions were practically apart of him, came as easy as breathing or blinking. But all the same, a soldier had to know how to control them in situations where they simply weren’t needed or, in Jack’s case, couldn’t be filtered through properly.

In such a public area, Jack had the small luxury of time--as soon as he’d leave the club though, who knows what would be waiting for him in any random back alley or dark corner of the streets. He decided his luck was better played casually, so he narrowed his eyes and sat back down--

Because Amélie’s eyes looked, if only for a moment, as surprised as Jack felt in seeing her. The moment passed in less than a heartbeat and she dismissed herself from the men she had been speaking to. They seemed disappointed, but too drunk to care--not when there were other women dancing on stage to capture their attention back up.

For all he could under the growing buzz of the whiskey, Jack did his best to keep his voice even and pleasant, as if he wasn’t talking to someone apart of an organization hell-bent on killing him.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” is what spilled from the old man’s lips, voice deep and husky.

Amélie paused, herself a few paces away from Morrison, and eyed him up with what might have looked like genuine interest, if only the confusion in her eyes didn’t betray it.

“The same goes for you,” her voice sounded soft, like a whisper, and yet Jack heard it clearly through the ambient sound of the club. “What is an old man like you doing...here?” She turned her eyes one way, then the other. Morrison’s slow mind started to panic, thinking that she was signaling undercover Talon agents. He looked around in kind, perhaps a bit too obviously, but realized that there was nobody--just regular patrons.

When he looked back to the woman’s face, it began to dawn on him that she may be in the same position he was--on her own. 

“I’ll spill my story if you yours,” Jack finally huffed. “I think that’s pretty fair.”

Amélie considered it for a moment, tapping one of her fingers to her chin as she leaned back against a table.

“I...see little harm in that. It’s been...boring here anyway.”

Jack didn’t trust her by any means, but his mind, softened enough by his drinking, took her words as genuine in intent. In fact, it made him actually take in what she looked like then, because she was far from what he would have expected to see the Talon assassin.

There was no denying that she was dressed her part in being part of the strip club itself. She wore an outfit that showed as much skin as it lavishly covered it up, teasing any patrons with just enough to make them and their inebriated minds want more. 

It was defined by the corset that clung to her form, embellished with black lace and glitter in the fabric itself. Jack wasn’t sure if Amélie was a well-endowed woman to begin with, but the corset seemed to give the visual all the same, matching the silk gloves and stockings that she wore. 

The outfit seemed entirely orchestrated, down to the dark high heels and bouncing curls of her hair that were still pulled back into a long ponytail.

…

Jack didn’t realize that he had been staring until his eyes roamed back up to Amélie’s face. The thought hit him with the same hot embarrassment as her wry smile did, but she didn’t take a moment to chastise him for it despite certainly deserving it. 

_ For fuck’s sake,  _ Morrison thought to himself.  _ I’m facing one of Talon’s top killers and I’m drunk off my ass and look like I want to fuck her over the nearest table. _

It was certainly something he’d kick himself over the next day, while sober, while also counting his blessings that she didn’t seem to have a mission or desire to harm him right then. Thank god.

After a moment, Amélie filled the silence between them with a soft, yet sharp voice.

“Do you recognize the name Vicente de Muerte?” Her tone hugged the spanish dialect smoothly, making Jack wonder if she was fluent in the language--he wouldn’t have been all that surprised.

What caught his surprise though was his genuine familiarity with the name she offered; it was the name of the man he was looking for.

“My information pegged him as going by a different surname,” Jack leaned back against the bar, letting the revelation work its way into his thoughts. “I might be familiar with it--what importance does he have to you?”

The woman lifted a brow, her interest seemingly piqued.

“I may be searching for him.” She glanced around the room again, and offered a momentary smile to a table of men who, with money held in their hands, weren’t being subtle about what they wanted. She turned back to Jack regardless, an intrigued sparkle in her eyes as their gaze met. “I would wager that you’re here for the same reason, no?”

If the situation wasn’t so odd and Morrison himself so buzzed, he probably wouldn’t have laughed as genuinely as he did. 

“Depends,” he shifts, making sure his voice was hushed just enough so that only she could hear his next words. “Are you here to kill him?”

The question sat in the air, getting only a stare in response. It wasn’t a hard look, but one that Jack wasn’t all that fond of; it  _ lingered _ a hair too long for his liking. While it was a step back from him worrying if Talon had a hit for the infamous Soldier 76, it was still a huge wrench in his plans. That man was one of the biggest cogs in the informative wheel that ran Los Muertos, and he was as useful to Morrison as a wet paper towel if he was dead before he could strangle the right information out of him.

Amélie tilted her head to the side, her lips cocking an odd smirk.

“What does it mean to you if I am?” 

She was toying with him. It didn’t take a genius to read the look on the woman’s face, and she wasn’t exactly trying to hide it either. The man narrowed his eyes and was about ready to bark out a stubborn rejection, a rejection to her goading, her attempt to pull the information from him (he wasn’t that easily swayed).

But he didn’t get the chance to say anything--someone called an unfamiliar name across the room and it caught both of their attention.

It was in spanish, but it was a name, and a name that felt far too on-the-nose for Jack not to make a face at.

Viuda Negra.

“You call yourself Black Widow here?” Jack sounded more disbelieving than anything as she shifted back onto her feet and began to walk away, towards a rowdy bunch at a table that one girl couldn’t seem to handle herself.

“Everyone has a name here, mon soldat,” Amélie teased with a wink. “Even if some of them aren’t real.”

He watched her go, his eyes drawn to the fluid motion of her body as she walked, the grace of her steps. There was training in it, sure, but there was also a naturalness--a feminine touch to her motion that caught Jack’s eyes for far longer than he really needed to look. Even after catching himself, the man took a few hesitant seconds to look away, settling back down at the bar with his own thoughts and empty glass.

For the first time in years, he didn’t have a clear directive to move with. Though it may have been obvious that there was some level of danger in a Talon member being in the same building as him, let alone looking for the same man, there was...something stilling him. She was just as surprised as he was and, by god, if Amélie--Widowmaker--wanted to kill Morrison, she would have taken the opportunity far sooner.

Curiosity was what stilled him from leaving out the front door, or well, the back door would have been more accurate to the old soldier. Curiosity for what she wanted and, god forbid, if they were looking for information close enough in topic that he could risk staying. But there was something else worming through his chest, emboldened by the heat of the alcohol and the memory of a face that was still just as enticing as it used to be, though married to another.

Lust. Jack was too old to be ignorant, and too tired to be prideful about the emotion flickering heat through his body. The only thing that stayed it firmly in place was caution--it was that same caution that kept him at the bar for however long Amélie wound up being busy with the other workers, waiting just so he could hear her answer and fill in all the blanks that kept him from executing the mission so fervently implanted in his thoughts.

_ Why was she here? Of all places?  _

Half an hour passed and, stupidly, Jack decided on another drink to calm the fraying nerves despite knowing full well that it would only fray them further.

True to her unspoken promise, Amélie returned to him, her gaze curious and amused.

“Intriguing how much women in this area of expertise trust one another,” She whispered, this time taking a seat beside Jack, her legs crossed and back against the bar. “It isn’t a job of mine, but I’ve been off the field for too long.”

“Missin’ a good fight?”

She shrugs offhandedly, as if asked something casual. 

“You of all people should know I much prefer a gun--what is a fight if it’s won with a single bullet?”

“Depends on who that bullet hits.”

Morrison sips down the last of his drink and nearly slaps down the payment onto the bar near the glass. It’s otherwise silent between the two out-of-place members of the club, at least for a solid minute. It doesn’t feel tense or cold--just silence, which is something that Jack hasn’t been all that used to feeling over the past few years.

And then it happens.

“I’m looking for information on Reyes.”

Amélie lifts her chin and peers to Jack from the side. There’s intrigue, but she’s clever in not showing it, playing a good card in a moment that neither party can otherwise compute cleanly. It wasn’t as if there were protocol for meeting your not-exactly-enemy in a strip club while the two of you were undercover.

It’s not trust. Jack Morrison doesn’t trust, at least not like that--but he is smart enough when to take a chance when it shows itself to him.

A moment passes. Then another. Finally, the woman beside him lets out a little laugh, a giggle really, which would sound so terrifying if she wasn’t otherwise playing the part of a bubbly hostess.

“I am looking for information on weapon trades,” she finally turns her head to look at Jack. “Specifically, why we’ve been double-crossed a few times more than we care to be. Your...old friend put me on the mission.”

A connection. Though he feels compelled instinctively, its realism that keeps him silent--both of them know it's not that simple, and that's under the assumption that Amélie would even care to begin with.

“It would seem that we’re here on missions that don’t conflict with one another,” He says in a moment of unspoken mutualism. “Assuming our guy remains alive.” 

I don’t kill him if you don’t kill him and we both get the information we want. Meet in the middle. It was something Jack would never think to do completely sober, but god damn it if he wasn’t mildly distracted every time he so much as glanced over to her, silk-clad and all.

Amélie smiled. The frightening thing about it was that Jack honestly couldn’t tell if it was forced or not.

“In that case, you should come again tomorrow night,” she moves from the bar in one fluid motion. “It’s my turn on the stage; I’m told I’m pretty good at this--and you’ve been staring.”

There wasn’t a moment available for him to come up with even a minutely flustered response, Jack was already watching her walk off before he could gather it all together. Instead, the old man watched her walk away, her words echoing loud enough in his otherwise silent, buzzed head.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack returns to the strip club the following night. Despite being sober as he walked through the door, knowing exactly who else was there, he still did it. He could almost hear the words of light-hearted mocking from old ghosts as he stepped inside the neon-lined doors.

_ What’s an old man like you coming back here? Your man ain’t gonna be there tonight. _

Jack knew the old voice well, but it encouraged him more than it cautioned away--hell, when was the last time that he could simply walk into a place like that to enjoy himself? He was tired of looking over his shoulder and double-checking doors. God dammit, Jack just wanted to relax, to forget all the sins and pains of the past for a night if anything.

He stepped into the room and glanced towards the bar. He could feel the pull of familiarity and habit, but chose to brush it off with a hand and take a spot near the stage instead. 

After all, he came to see someone’s show.

The thought would have come with shame if he hadn’t already decided, stubbornly--

Fuck it.

Seriously, just fuck it--Jack wasn’t going to be himself that night. At least, he wasn’t going to be Soldier 76, he wasn’t going to be a man on the hunt for anything other than a night’s enjoyment for once in his second life.

It was odd to fight his instincts, to ignore the things that kept him alive for so many years, both before and after the fall of Overwatch. Odd, but not painful--Jack had heard plenty of stories about old soldiers being so set in their instincts, so warped by battle and war, that they simply could never relax anymore. 

As a young man in Soldier Enhancement Program, he could almost believe it--he personally felt the power of instincts and the pain when one ignores them. But he also wanted something more, to be someone less perfect than the bright golden boy that people labeled him.

Jack sat casually in the chair at the table, leaned back as far as it could allow, and ordered a drink from the tabletop computer. Alcohol sounded like a great idea and god, did he want to be drunk--maybe he’ll finally see how much it took to get him there, overcharged metabolism and all.

There was a fair number of other people that night, though most of them followed the same formula that he had come to accept already--the strip club attracted its fair share of men from different backgrounds, but with none of them seemingly Los Muertos, Jack couldn’t find the will in his body to care further than that. He turned his face to the stage again just as a woman stepped up to his table to set down his drink.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, bringing the glass to his lips and taking a nice, long, burning sip that trickled a fire down to his belly. It was a good burn, a sweet burn, one that he welcomed to start chipping away at his sobriety and let him enjoy something for once.

\---

True to her word, Amélie was dancing that night. Morrison wasn’t sure how most of these shows started (it isn’t as if he had been to a lot of strip clubs before) but he definitely noticed the change in the music and lights when it did. He was already sipping on his second drink, a plan to start getting shots a growing whisper in his mind to speed up the whole ‘getting drunk’ process.

There was something about the music that played that made Jack want to lull, to lean even farther back in his chair. It pumped and soothed with bright notes and heavy bass, in a way that was loud but soothing all the same--it was almost as if he could feel it deep in his bones, buzzing against his body and exciting him in a way he never quite expected it to--maybe the alcohol was starting to loosen him up.

Regardless, Jack turned his eyes to the stage when he saw the back curtains shift and someone stepping out. The deep velvet red fabric moved over soft curves like water, but could not be compared to the smooth movements of Amélie herself as she walked towards the front of the stage itself. She was dressed as she had been yesterday--lace and silk and high heels--and had a smile on her face. It was not a smile of malice, but something else--something that Jack couldn’t honestly point out, but he liked it regardless.

She stepped up to a poll that took the center of the stage, and Jack could feel the attention of the patrons move to her. It wasn’t as if she was a subtle form, despite there being a few other dancers on either side of the wide stage, with other sections open to other performances--she was bright, cloying almost, and Jack couldn’t help but let his attention completely fall upon her as she began to move.

It wasn’t a lie to say that Jack expected a certain kind of movement from such an establishment--something more reminiscent of a cheap porn movie, but there was something to be said about the grace in which Amélie danced above him. She was slow, but sure, each movement seductive and smooth as honey. She flowed like water as she stepped around the center pole, her hands shifting from one position to another, sometimes pressing to her body and sometimes holding onto the pole itself.

When she seemed satisfied in capturing the attention of all in the club, the woman began to move a little faster, more intricate, her movements a bit more athletic than before. Jack could begin to feel a heat blooming in his stomach, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. Her skin looked so smooth, and her face so soft, so beautiful--more and more did he want to see want to see what was beneath her clothes, as sparse as they were already. Fingers clenched his thigh, hard, as visions began to fill his mind of what he started to want.

He could imagine that soft skin beneath his fingertips, so giving and warm. He could imagine her long, graceful legs around his waist, pulling him close. Jack wondered what it would be like to run his lips over the curve of her throat and biting down to hear her gasp; what color would blossom on her?

The dance only continued to get more complex, more intricate, and Jack found himself beginning to breathe harder as he watched it unravel before him.

_ Fuck. _

The word was a mantra in his mind at that point, completely forgetting about drinking and only wanting to watch how she moved enticingly in front of him. There was a want in his body, a deep want that seemed to bleed into every thought, every focus, every emotion. Considering the man wasn’t even bothering to fight it, he knew the want plainly enough--lust. Desire. He could feel his cock already straining against the fabric of his pants as his mind only worsened in the thoughts he wanted to act out with her. 

God, how he wanted her.

How she moved, how she looked, how she seemed to know what he wanted--

She glanced down at him at some point in her dancing. She looked down to him and their eyes met cleanly through the din, the sound, the flashing lights and dark stage-side seats. Jack saw her eyes flash and for what would have been the first time since seeing what Amélie had become, he could see passion in them. There was a fire, burning hot and reaching out to only embolden his own. She had to know his thoughts or, at least, she had to know what he was feeling.

She smiled again and continued with her show.

Ten minutes, half an hour, an hour; Jack didn’t realize how long the show itself was, only that he was enraptured the entire way through. Amélie didn’t need to take a single item of clothing off for him to feel a fire of want--and he was certain that many of the other onlookers did too. Possessiveness began to worm its way into Jack’s thoughts. He obviously had no claim to Amélie, nor did anyone else (and by god they were enemies on any other day of the week), but he felt a hot need to seek her out before someone else did.

So he did.

Morrison stood from the table, paying his dues without a second thought and moving unnoticed to the back of the room, past the stage. There was a hallway leading farther back, presumably to the private section of the club and the section where the dancers could get themselves ready. He stepped down the hallway, unbothered and alone, until he finally saw one of the doors open and Amélie herself walk out.

For a moment, everything was a blur. Jack could feel the heat of want trailing through his thoughts and hear the thick sound of the woman’s name spill from his lips as he stepped closer to her. The woman, though she could have easily did a number of painful things to his advancing form, simply leaned back against the wall she was nearest, letting him approach her with that almost innocent-sweet look on her face again.

“Mon soldat,” she whispered, only a tinge of surprise on her words. “I wondered if you would return. Saw the show, did you?”

She teased him, but Jack was beyond simple teasing at that point; he wanted something more. He grabbed her hips with his hands and pressed his fingers into the curves, feeling the lace material beneath his fingertips. He could feel her gasp when he moved closer still, letting his hips press to hers so she could  _ feel _ the effect, the firmness to her lower belly.

“I’m not here to tease or joke,” Jack said lowly, his voice as rough as gravel and as hot as fire. “I want to fuck you, Amélie.”

The tells on the woman’s face were so subtle, always so subtle, but Morrison was able to pick them up regardless, eyes trained on the details that, in a soldier’s life, could mean life or death. He saw the way her eyes widened a hair, the way her lips twitched, almost quivered if he dare describe it that way--he could see, for a millisecond, a look of genuine, mutual want.

He pressed closer still to her body, grinding his hips against hers. His hands held her body still as he waited for a response. 

Jack wanted to fuck. He wanted to slam her into the bed and have her so many ways that both of them forgot who they were.

At last, Amélie tilted her head to the side and brought a hand up to Jack’s face; he could feel the soft, sleek feel of silk against his skin.

“Follow me, mon soldat,” is all that she said, and gently pressed her other hand to his chest to push him back. Jack let her, and stepped away, just enough to that she could start walking further down the hall. Morrison followed only a pace or so behind her, his eyes taking in the sight of the woman’s curves once more and, honestly, her ass.

Perverted old man he was, but shame had already been flung right out the window for the night.

When he finally saw the woman stop, Jack took in the new room they were in. It was small, but not claustrophobic---a couch, a bed, a fridge and several other small appliances he didn’t care to identify at all. There was only Amélie to him at that point, standing in front of him, her arms crossed, her expression coy, glancing down to the couch behind her.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” She asked after a moment. “We don’t need to rush through all the fun at once.”

As much as Jack wanted to argue, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of playfulness himself. He let out a half-tired chuckle and finally sat, body spread with his arms stretched out behind him, hooked over the couch, and his legs casually spread. He watched as Amélie herself slowly peeled the silken gloves from her arms, the heels from her feet. 

“There’s quite a talent needed to dance in those things,” she said offhandedly, almost casually--as if Jack wasn’t waiting for her next move with a hunger in his belly and a hardon pressed against the inside of his pants. “But a lot of men like it, and you’re not any exception, Morrison.”

“You can call me Jack,” The old soldier gruffed. “I think we can both be on a first-name basis for tonight at least.”

He watched as the woman finally began to approach him, still clad in her lingerie and garter straps. She looked so coy, so soft, and he couldn’t help but reach a hand out to hold her hips as she settled herself over his lap. Jack could feel that pressure, that delicious pressure, of her body pressing down on him.

She smiled sweetly, too sweetly.

“Oh, mon soldat,” Amélie pulled his hand away. “You’re not allowed to touch yet.”

She wiggled her hips and Jack moaned, whatever argument he had completely lost to the void of a sparkling pleasure. When was the last time that he had something like this? A woman to hold, to have, to feel--he felt so hot and tense as she moved over him, a graceful dance over his hips that hit Jack hard.

“ _ Fuck _ .” He cursed. Amélie giggled, a girlish sound that Jack would have been terrified to hear from a trained killer in any other setting, and continued to move against him.

Despite the layers of clothes, the indirect pleasure, the little dance only turned Jack on more--it teased him with how close she was to him, how he could feel her warmth but wasn’t allowed to touch that supple skin or her pert ass. He loved and hated it at the same time, caught in a firestorm of desire and restraint that he doubted would stay for all that longer.

She began to undo his clothes by the time Jack’s mind came back to the present. He felt her soft, careful fingers pull the zipper of his jacket down, farther, and push the fabric from his shoulders. He let her maneuver him so that it came off--and was tossed away--easily enough, leaving the man in a thin undershirt that did little to hide the gentle divots of muscle of his chest.

“A man as strong as you,” Amélie whispered, lips against his ear. “I bet could manhandle me right into bed.”

Jack could taste the dare. He could hear it, burning against his ears. 

He moved with a speed most men his age wouldn’t have--before Amélie could react, he reached to grope the woman’s ass and tug her close, lift his hips to enjoy a moment of pressure that he was in control of than anything else.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” The man demanded in a gravelly growl. “You want me to manhandle you? Control you?” He tightened his grip, feeling the way his fingers pressed into her soft skin, the way it strained the fabric she wore.

Amélie didn’t respond with anything other than a muffled moan, her face pressed into the crook of Jack’s throat--but that was all the answer he needed. Whatever last strings of restraint were still in his mind, he tore through them, ripped them up like a thoughtless beast.

It didn’t take long for the man to figure out how to undo the few fasteners on her one-piece lingerie, but he was on the edge of ripping the damn thing off that it almost didn’t matter at all--regardless, he felt victory in watching the teasing fabric fall, pool around the woman’s waist so he could explore her body the way he’d been wanting to.

Gasps and moans began to fill the air of the room as Jack discovered how sensitive she was--hands and lips scouring over Amélie’s throat, shoulders, collarbone and down to her breasts. He fondled them with a sense of firm purpose, for as much pleasure to himself as to her, and found out quickly enough that the cold assassin was still quite capable of letting out the most beautiful, passionate sounds.

“You’re too quiet,” Morrison whispered against the woman’s ear. “I much prefer t’hear all those noises you’re making. I wanna hear you scream my name.”

He held her tight, letting his teeth nip down the woman’s jaw and throat before sucking a mark over her skin. He felt her gasp and her fingers grab at his shoulders--and it felt  _ amazing. _

Jack moved further down, emboldened by her sounds, until he finally came to pull one of her nipples between his lips and tug at it with his teeth. Another gasp, but there was a sound to this one--a sound that almost sounded like his name. Oh, that was nice.

He continued to lavish the woman with passionate kisses over her upper body, his hands never moving from her ass as he continued to grope the beautiful curves. God, she felt wonderful against him--he couldn’t take the teasing anymore. Jack needed to feel more, to have more, and that was the only thought flowing through his mind when he finally stood.

With Amélie in his arms, all she could do was wrap her legs around Morrison’s waist in response. He chuckled, having surprised her again, and growled deep in his chest as he let the moment simmer pleasantly, echoing the delicious heat that throbbed between his legs.

She kept her face against his throat, her lips tracing against his pulse. Amélie let out no response, no noise, but he could feel the way that she shivered against him.

It didn’t take all that much effort to toss her onto the nearby bed. It looked (and probably was) made for fucking--the woman fell against the lavish-looking blankets, her hair undone and body half-dressed.

Jack stood and looked down at her. She looked so undone, her cheeks tinged a darker color (blushing) that only furthered the seeming coy, innocent look to her entire form. 

_ Fuck. _

“Been a long time since I’ve had a good fuck,” Jack said. He felt hot, hot all over, and his voice was barely above a whisper. “And I was wanting to be inside you since I saw you step on stage. Teasing me to hell and back.”

Amélie watched as Jack stripped. It wasn’t graceful or fluid by any means, but powerful, primal,  _ beastly _ . It didn’t hide how much he  _ wanted _ , how much he just wanted to be naked and crawl onto the bed and ravish her to pieces. His undershirt was tossed to one corner of the room, followed by his pants and the rest of his clothes. 

He stood in front of the bed, body bare but for the scars that criss-crossed over his flesh, cock hard and throbbing. Jack let Amélie take him in for a moment, just a moment, before he moved onto the bed and over her body.

“Do you care about this at all?” he asked with one hand fisting some of the fabric of her lingerie.

“Not much,” she answered quickly, her voice almost cut, spoken through a gasp. “The club pays for plenty of them, I’ve heard.”

Jack feels a quirk at his lips as he takes the moment to rip the fabric from Amélie’s body in one motion, relishing in the loud, sharp sound that echoed around them. He loved it, the roughness, the primal heat in his chest, the satisfaction of literally ripping off the layers that kept her naked from from his prying eyes.

So satisfying.

“Almost sounds like you actually work here.”

Morrison settled himself between her legs, taking in every inch of her now naked body with his eyes and hands. She was so supple and smooth, every curve yearning to be explored.

He licked his lips. “Never knew you took so well to being so  _ naughty _ .”

The word felt foreign only for a moment on his tongue--the moment passed by quickly enough, especially as she replied coyly,

“Perhaps I enjoy a role like this,” her eyes fluttered. “If it means I get to be beneath a man like you, mon soldat.”

“I’m almost old enough to be your father,” came his quip, only half-serious. “But maybe you like that too?”

Her brow twitched at the question--just slightly. It wasn’t hard to read her response even if she was otherwise silent. Jack took the challenge with a grin, pressing his hips down so he could finally get a taste of the hot, wet pleasure of her cunt rubbing against the shaft of his cock. God, it felt good, but only teased at the thought of being buried deep inside of her.

“C’mon and beg for it,” Jack said in a low, powerful command. “Beg for this--for me--inside you.”

Amélie was silent, firmly so, a wall that he knew he could break with a bit more pressure. He moved harder and slower against her, knowing when he hit a good rhythm when he started to feel her twitch lightly against his body. Her little expressions started to loosen, lips starting to quiver, cheeks starting to flush, eyes starting to flutter again.

“Tell. Me.” Jack commanded with an even louder, deeper voice that felt like it came from his chest. “ _ Who's your daddy?” _

And all of a sudden, it was like something snapped. All the sexual tension, the heat, the need--it all snapped in a moment and a waterfall of desire began to pour from it.

Amélie let out a soft cry, but it sounded close enough to Jack’s name that he felt so satisfied to see the pleasure on her face. It took less than a moment for him to position his hips and plunge himself inside of her, feeling the blissful tightness of her cunt around him in a moment of bright, electric pleasure.

“Fuck!” he snarled, letting the sound out as deep as he felt it. 

Amélie seemed to echo the notion with her own sound, loud and drawn, her hands instantly moving to grip Jack’s shoulders and her legs around his waist. After barely a moment to soak in the pleasure, the man started thrusting against her--heat bloomed between them, a beautiful mixture of bestial need and emotions that filled the room so thick that it almost ( _ almost _ ) felt hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything but focus entirely on the feeling of each other's skin and voices.

He held her tight, hands on her hips and face switching between pressing into the pillow or into the crook of Amélie’s throat. God, it was so good, so perfect, Jack wanted to saturate himself in nothing but that very moment where nothing mattered but moving faster and deeper so he could hear even more noises from her lips.

He didn’t want it to end.

The two of them switched positions once or twice, if only to try new angles--and they fell on one that Jack couldn’t argue with--Amélie bent over the edge of the bed, body pressed into the soft bed and her ass up in some sort of delightful offering for Jack to take for himself.

It felt so nice to have his hands over her hips, pulling her back to meet each thrust. It felt as good to him as it did for her--by this time, Amélie had opened up significantly, her voice practically a song of pleasure with every motion he made.

Jack. 

He could hear his name so clearly in her pleas, her whispers--it was so beautiful that his orgasm nearly took him by surprise. 

Tension and heat filled the man’s body up, he could feel it between his legs, threatening to explode--but he wanted to hear one last thing first.

“Say my name,” the man demanded, leaning down so he could brush his lips against the shell of Amélie’s ear, to feel her silky-soft hair against his jaw. “Say my name nice and loud--I’ll make you cum. Make you cum harder than you ever have.”

It was a promise he emphasized with even stronger thrusts, fingertips almost digging into the skin of her hips and making the bed feel like it was bouncing with each and every thrust.

Amélie floundered for a few seconds, and Morrison couldn’t tell if she did because she simply didn’t have words, or because she didn’t want to say it. Regardless of the reason, he echoed his question again, deeper, more powerful, doing his best to force his own orgasm down to the back of his mind.

He craved to feel her orgasm around him first.

She gasped and moaned, but started to putter out a word, a sound--Jack’s name.

“Jack,” She moaned softly, voice getting louder as she went. “Jack...Jack...Jack!...”

God, it was beautiful to hear that.

The man kept his promised and tossed out anything keeping him from fucking the woman down into the mattress, his hips pistoning hard and fast to rub the inside of her cunt in all the right ways, to milk out every ounce of hot craving her body could want. He felt her convulse and begin to shake, felt her pussy tighten around him in waves and oh--

He was cumming too. Fuck, it was as if the moments shattered, time like nothing when the heat of pleasure and euphoria was there to burn it down to ash. He felt perfect for those seconds, nothing but his body filling the woman up with wet heat and relishing the way she came around his cock, the way she scrabbled for some kind of hold, some anchor down to the real world when the pleasure threatened to carry her away otherwise.

…

When everything was said and done, the two of them were laying on the bed together, on their backs. They neither cared to wrap the other in their arms, nor tried to avoid the casual touching of their hands, legs, shoulders and arms. The two of them simply stewed in their own sobering thoughts as the afterglow began to pass.

“Not sure what you say after this sorta thing,” Jack said, finally, staring up at the ceiling that….had a mirror? Kinky. “I uh...don’t know if I should thank you or pretend it never happened at all.”

He could feel the woman chuckle.

“We were just two people who met and enjoyed an intimate moment.”

“Not enemies?” The question felt odd on Jack’s tongue, and dangerous in meaning. They were, definitely, still enemies. “I can’t say that I won’t point my rifle at you the next time we meet.”

“I can’t promise that either,” she said in mutual understanding, no intent left misunderstood. There was a pause though, and Amélie reached a hand up to pull some stray hairs from her eyes. “But, if we meet on missions that don’t clash…”

Jack finally turned his face to look at her profile. There was a quirk on her lips.

“...then we’re just two people to meet and enjoy a moment,” he finished for her.

The smile grew on the woman’s lips.

“Exactly, mon soldat.”


End file.
